


Lionheart

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lionheart

**Author's Note:**

> I love Princess Abigail. I hope against hope she'll be back, because she's wonderful. And I want her and Frederick to be happy.

Abigail, daughter of Midas and Heir to the Western provinces, was a level-headed woman. A wise mind was contained between a fair face and bright, clever eyes, and most everyone in the Kingdom knew that the lady would be a just Queen. 

Whether she was permitted to be so was a matter of contestation, but as there was no suitor of high enough rank yet available, until the day came when she became a wife, she was Heir apparent.

Her time was spent in her father’s councils, rather than partaking of needlework or other ladylike pursuits, and her father did little to dissuade her. Indeed, he seemed to believe it necessary that she know the men she might one day have to command.

And yet, it came as unexpected when their grave and thoughtful Princess turned a smile on one of her father’s Knights.

The young Knight in question was a handsome boy, the second or third son of some Baron or other. While he did not excel in the tourney, he understood strategy and technique. When raiders came, he turned their tactics against them, against the orders of his commander, and though they won the day, the King was obliged to reduce him in the eyes of his fellows.

Frederick took the disgrace with silent acknowledgement, knowing he would have to work to gain face once more. He bowed deeply and with respect, then withdrew from the halls, his helm beneath his arm. It was only when he was in the dark silence of the outer halls that his shoulders slumped and he breathed out hard.

“You did the right thing.” A voice spoke nearby, sweet and calm. The Princess emerged from the shadows, her gown pale silver in the moonlight that cut through the tall windows. “My father knows it too, but that doesn’t change the fact that you disobeyed your commander.”

“Disrespect merited a punishment, your Highness,” Sir Frederick said, bowing gravely. “I know that well enough, but that doesn’t make it any less painful.”

She approached him, and gazed at him steadily for a long while. “You have a keen eye,” she said. “Come with me. There’s something we would have you take a look at.”

“We?”

She smiled. “My father and I.” She inclined her head, a gleam in her eyes. “You can’t tell anyone, of course. Father cannot be seen to favour anyone, but I, on the other hand, am not adverse to seeking out a fresh perspective.”

One side of his mouth turned up. “I’m a perspective?” he said.

She laughed quietly. “Well, you’re certainly fresh,” she said. “Your arm, sir?”

He offered it at once, smiling when she took it. “Your Highness.”

With Frederick’s eye for battle strategy, when war came, Midas’s lands stood firm. Even though he was not acknowledged for his part in the victory, Frederick only smiled a secretive smile and bowed to the King, then the Princess.

When she returned that secretive smile, no one dared to believe it could mean what such secret smiles often did. She was far too sensible to let emotion lead her to one so far beneath her in rank. 

She rode in her father’s convoy as they made journeys to their provinces, but none noticed the woman clad as a handmaiden, cloaked and light of foot, who slipped from the tent of the Princess to linger on the edge of the encampment with an equally concealed man. 

None could say anything improper was happening.

They would sit together and talk into the smallest hours of the night, only talk. At best, gloved fingers could interlace in the space between them, for the Princess knew that love - even the truest of loves - had to come second to duty and propriety. 

Only once, once in days and weeks and months of war councils and battles and travel to the furthest reaches of Midas’s kingdom, did Frederick dare to rebel. 

He knew the value of obedience, and the shame that would follow if he faltered, but once - one precious instant - he pushed back the Princess’s hood. She was lit by starlight and the moon, and he had never seen anything so beautiful. They could not and would not be together, but he knew he could not regret the chance he had been given. 

He tilted her face to his, giving her ample opportunity to push him back, to flee, to turn away from him, but she did none of those things. Her eyes drifted closed and her lips parted with an inviting sigh, and he could do naught but kiss her as if he may drown without the taste of her on his lips. 

Their secret whispers became more secretive still. Words of love could not be said, but they hung upon the air, like the breath in chilly winter. When he asked of her plans to marry, she didn’t dare to look at him, and he didn’t dare to ask again. Her fingers tightened on his and she looked at the sky.

“A Princess must do what is best for her country,” she said quietly. “Not for herself.”

“If I asked you, if you were no Princess…”

“You know what my answer would be,” she said, turning her head to look at him. “I would cry it to the heavens, if you asked. But I am a Princess, and so that can never be my answer.”

They didn’t speak of it again, and when she waited for him at the edge of the camp the next night, he didn’t come. Nor the next. Nor the next. 

Abigail was calm and quiet. She went to her father and asked him to summon the errant Knight, and when he came, he didn’t look to her. Instead, he went on one knee before the King and fixed his eyes on a point on the ground.

“Will you not look at me, Sir?” Abigail said quietly.

“I must refuse, your Highness,” Frederick replied, his eyes down. “Otherwise, I will forget myself.”

Abigail kept her eyes from her father as she approached the kneeling Knight. “Then forget yourself, Frederick,” she said. “Look at me.”

He raised his eyes to her. He was as pale as she knew she must be, and his expression was fraught with distress. “You are a Princess, your Highness,” he said quietly, for her ears only. “I am only an obstacle. You should put me aside. I can’t let you break your heart by staying close to you.”

“So you’ll break it by walking away?” she challenged quietly. “The coward’s way out, Frederick.” She turned her back on him to approach her father on his modest chair. “Father, if you’ll excuse me. I should prepare for travel tomorrow. Frederick is to join your vanguard. He can protect the head of the column.”

King Midas gazed at her, then looked at Frederick. “He’s certainly proven his worth,” he agreed. He dismissed the young Knight with a gesture of his gloved right hand. Only once Frederick was gone did he look back at Abigail. “Has he offended you, my dear?”

Abigail’s smile trembled on her lips. “No, father,” she said. “Quite the opposite.”

A look of illumination crossed her father’s face. “Ah. No small wonder, daughter.” He smiled, motioning for her to sit on his footstool. He gently stroked her head. “You are the brightest and most beautiful in our lands. What man would not fall in love with you?”

She clasped her father’s gloved hand carefully. “Better that he does not get too attached,” she said as steadily as she could. “It would be unsuitable for a Knight to be enamoured with his Princess.”

“Sometimes,” he said, looking at her solemnly, “these things happen. If you believe the old tales, sometimes, the greatest love stories come from someone low born being raised to greatness because of the one they love.”

“Stories,” she murmured. “For children.” She met her father’s eyes. “We don’t have the luxury of stories.”

His gloved hand brushed her cheek tenderly. “Not often,” he agreed.

Abigail rose from the stool. “You should have your glove tended, father,” she said. “It’s looking a little threadbare. How many layers of gold have settled inside it now?”

He grimaced. “Too many already,” he said. “The next town we reach, we will have it repaired before it cracks open.”

She smiled fondly. “Two days, then,” she said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “As long as you are careful, we won’t end up with another golden stallion to decorate the palace gates.”

He snorted, waving her away. “Run along, you impertinent girl.”

Abigail curtsied playfully. “Good night, father.”

All the same, as soon as she was out of his sight, her shoulders sank and she covered her face briefly with her hands. Frederick was right. The sooner they were parted, the easier it would be to stay that way. No matter how it hurt, she knew it had to be done.

She drew herself up, put her calmest expression upon her face, and returned to her tent.

Only in the quiet and the solitude did she allow herself the luxury of tears.

By morning, she smiled solemnly as she took her place in the column. She was not far behind her father, close enough to see his standard, but far enough that she could not make out the Knights who surrounded him in gleaming cohorts.

As they journeyed onwards, she was glad that Frederick was one of the men guarding her father. The last leg of the journey was treacherous, through an untamed forest that led to the next valley, where they were expected. She found herself watching shadows. Too many hours spent in the war councils had made her wary of being surrounded by hiding places.

It seemed she was not alone.

From the head of the column, there was a cry of “Ambush!” a moment before a flurry of bandits poured out from beneath bushes and behind trees. There were dozens of them and the Knights closed in on her father to protect him, her own guards closing around her.

“Guard my people!” she cried to her soldiers. “I don’t need all of you! The column! Protect the column!”

They scattered, and though she saw blades whirling near at hand, none of the bandits were skilled or quick enough to get to her or do any real damage. They were seen off in a matter of moments, and she caught her breath, her heart racing. 

“Father!” She urged her mare forward through the crowd, which parted before her. “Father!”

Her father was off his horse, and she all but fell from her own, rushing towards him, but he cried out and two of his guards put up swords between them. “Abigail, no!” 

Only then did she see that his glove had split and his hand was bared.

“You… you’re all right, father?”

He stared at her as if he was not truly seeing her. “I am.” 

“And Frederick?” Propriety meant nothing. She looked around urgently. “He saw the ambush. Did he give chase?”

Her father turned his head, looking ahead of them, and she saw a glimpse of gold. It was as if her father had touched her very heart with that bare hand of his. Her legs trembled beneath her and she stumbled towards the shape of a man with his sword upraised. He was shimmering and golden and Frederick.

“No,” she said, her voice trembling. “No, father. No.”

“He saved me,” her father said as her fingertips touched the golden armour, the hand around the sword, the hand that had held hers only nights before. “Threw himself before me. Under the bandit’s sword. I fell. I’m sorry, Abigail.”

“No,” Abigail said again. Her face felt hot and wet and she stepped in front of the man she loved. “No.” She lifted her hand to touch the helmet. “It’s a curse. It’s a curse and all curses can be broken.” She wanted to laugh, but couldn’t for weeping. “I’m sorry, father. I love him.”

She rose on her toes and pressed her lips to Frederick’s helm. It was cold and everything he wasn’t. He didn’t move. He didn’t stir. He didn’t take her in his arms again. Her throat burned and she stifled a sob, clutching at his shoulders and kissing the helm over and over, trying to find some way to reach him to touch him. 

If she stopped, if she stopped trying, then how could she believe she loved him truly?

“Abigail.” Her father’s voice was so close. “Abigail, please stop. Please. He’s gone.”

She shook her head, sobbing, and kissing the helm again. She could taste metal and salt and blood on her aching lips and she put her arms around the statue, her fingers scraped raw on golden chain mail.

Arms were around her, broad and mailed and she screamed as she was dragged back.

“No! No, I have to break the curse! Please! I have to break the curse!”

“Hold her!” Her father sounded close to weeping. “Please, someone hold her!”

Someone did. She didn’t know or care who. She only knew she was held and fast, and it was not Frederick, for Frederick never would or could hold her again. He was gone, and there was no coming back from that fate, if true love’s kiss hadn’t worked. 

The column must have moved on.

They all must have moved on.

She could pay no heed to it, blank and empty-eyed and numb to all around her. Someone fed her soup. Someone wrapped her in blankets. Someone sat with her by candlelight into the night. Someone was always there, though she never cared who it was.

Days must have gone by, when she finally raised her head from the pillow upon which it rested. Her head ached and her mouth was dry. Her cheeks felt flushed and swollen, but her tears were spent. She felt drained and empty.

“Abigail?”

With effort, she turned over on the bed. Her father was sitting close by, his left hand rubbing distractedly at his gloved right. His eyes were on her face, and there were so many emotions, she couldn’t help catching her breath: grief, anxiety, guilt, despair.

“Father?”

He hesitated, then haltingly reached out his left - his good - hand to her. “Abigail, my girl, my darling girl.” He was trembling, her stalwart and smiling father. Even when he was first cursed, he had never trembled. 

She took his hand carefully. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. “He wanted to save you.”

Her father lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, and pressed his cheek to the back of her palm. “I should never have let my glove get so worn,” he said. He looked older than she had ever seen him. “Of all the men, it had to be the one you loved.”

She struggled to sit up, drawing her hand from his to push her tangled hair back from her face. “If you suggest another should have been cursed instead,” she whispered hoarsely, “you are not the father I remember.”

“Never.” Her father said. “Never that.” He buried his face in his hand, and she was shocked when her father sobbed. “No one should have been harmed. No one.”

It was as it had been when her mother passed.

Though she was numb to the bone, Abigail slid to the edge of the bed and gathered her father in her arms. They clung to one another, he the instrument of Frederick’s end, she the widow of the husband she had never had the chance to marry. 

She rested her head on her father’s shoulder, staring blindly into nothing.

At least now, she thought, she would not have to be afraid of whatever arranged marriage would be set before her. She would never have to be afraid of looking across the council chamber and seeing Frederick walking away from her. It would be easier. She could consider herself his widow, and a marriage would not be such a trial. 

She was a Princess, after all, and a Princess was not allowed the luxury of happiness.

She drew a breath, the gracious Princess Abigail once more. “Where is he?” she asked, her voice forced to steadiness. 

Her father stroked her back gently. “Guarded, where he fell,” he said quietly. “He will be honoured for his sacrifice.” He drew back, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. “You can go to him if you want to.”

The thought was almost unbearable, to be so close yet so far.

“No,” she said quietly. “We should return home. We have sacrificed enough.”

The tale, it seemed, raced ahead of them. She was prepared for the sorrow, for Frederick was well-liked, but she had not anticipated the pity directed at her. Her mask became perfect, a bland, sad smile and nod, whenever someone spoke of him. She chose not to speak to any of him, for what could they tell her that she didn’t already know? He loved her, she loved him, and he was gone.

Her duties were where she took refuge. Her father understood, and made no attempts to send her back to the womens’ quarters. He let her attend meetings, watch over management of the lands, sign edicts. She would be a Queen, no matter if she married or not, and her husband could do as he pleased. 

Day by day, week by week, month by month, she continued. Many believed her days of mourning were done, but only a handful knew that each month, she would ride to the famed statue of gold in the woods, whisper his name and press her lips to the helm, the gloved hands, any part of him that might be within her reach.

And yet, whispers reached her ears through the lips of maids and the gossip and rumours beneath the stairs. She hardly listened to their nonsense, but just once, she caught word of a name, a familiar name, a powerful name.

It was said only the desperate went to him, and certainly not the daughter of Midas. His tricks with words were the reason for her father’s curse. She was only a child when her father had made a simple deal, when his Kingdom was being held to ransom by a powerful oligarch. He paid a high price when he asked for to have enough gold to hand to always ensure his kingdom’s safety.

The request, it seemed, was to be taken literally.

All the same, Rumpelstiltskin was powerful. Perhaps more powerful than the curse twined around her father’s hand.

In the quiet of her chamber, she composed a letter with as much dignity as she could. He was a villain and fiend, but he deserved to be at least accorded the respect she would show any man who might be powerful enough to destroy hearth and home. 

No word came, no letter, no acknowledgement, but one night when she sat before the fire, reading, she was suddenly aware that she was not alone. She did not immediately look up, though her heart was racing, choosing instead to finish the page she was on. It would make her stance clear: she had not waited for him, but he could wait for her. She would not bend before a demon imp’s whim.

She set her ribbon to mark her place once she was done and closed the book in her lap, then raised her head.

The man who was not a man sat in the opposite chair, one leg crossed over the other. One arm draped along the arm of the chair, and the elbow of the other was propped so he could cup his chin in his hand, his dark eyes on her face. His skin glittered eerily by the firelight, and thin lips drew back from his sharp teeth.

“Princess,” he purred, inclining his head.

She raised her chin, meeting his eyes. “You know this is a rather inappropriate way to approach a highborn lady, I have no doubt.”

He giggled. “Of course, of course,” he said, reclining back in the chair, “but then I was never known for being… appropriate.”

Abigail gazed at him, setting her book aside on a small table. “You know why I have called on you.”

“Well, it’s not for gold!” He crowed at his own cleverness and Abigail smiled hard to keep from cursing, tempted to throw her book at him with all her strength.

“You’ve heard.”

He threw his hand dramatically against his forehead. “Alas and alack that Good King Midas has taken to turning his staff into statues.” He lowered his hand, grinning nastily. “You’d think he’d be a bit more careful with my presents.”

“There’s only so much care that can be taken in the heat of battle,” she said evenly. “Can it be undone?”

He put his head to one side, putting her in mind of a bird watching a worm. “Yes, yes, yes, indeed it can,” he said, leaning forward. “But why would a Princess such as yourself, summon someone such as myself to discuss a little tin soldier?”

“Because my father will not see you nor have concourse with you,” Abigail lied smoothly. It may have been a half-truth, but if her father knew Rumpelstiltskin was in the castle, he would send what mages he had after the man. “The last time you did business, it didn’t end well for him.”

Rumpelstiltskin widened his eyes in mock horror. “He got what he wanted, did he not? All the gold he could need to hand.”

Abigail smoothed her skirt over her thighs and studied him. “What would need to be done, to save the Knight who saved my father?” she said finally, folding her hands one over the other.

“There is magic,” he said, smiling his unpleasant smile. “It’s a… particular kind, very tricky to get, very dangerous. Nothing you would want to send a mere mortal after. I can fetch you some. For a price.”

She sat back in her chair. “What kind of magic?”

“Magic,” he said with a flourishing gesture. “Does it matter?”

She inclined her head gravely. “I have learned to be wary, thanks to you,” she said. “Tell me what it would do.”

“It would do what you have asked, dearie,” he said, leaning forward, bracing one hand on his knee. “It is a particular water, which would wash away the traces of your father’s curse and restore what was lost to you.”

Abigail felt warmth rise in her cheeks. “I do not do this for me,” she said.

He wrinkled his nose. “Of course you don’t,” he said mockingly. “A Princess who will deal with a monster to save a single Knight? How foolish do you think I am?”

“I think you are very foolish if you do not think I would do the same for any who was cursed by my father’s touch,” she retorted quietly. “The memory of what he has done, no matter how accidental it was, grieves him.” She rose, standing over him, her voice steady and calm. “I will not have him losing years and joy to guilt and sorrow, if it can be undone.”

Rumpelstiltskin leaned back, a thoughtful look on his face. “Well, well,” he said, “What a loyal daughter you are.”

“Is that so surprising?” She clasped her hands together before her.

He sprang up, leaning close to her. “You wouldn’t believe the things I have seen Royals do, dearie. A daughter can be a very treacherous creature. ” He tutted and shook his head. “Some of them are very nasty little things.”

“You forget your place,” she said, her voice steady. “I am a lady and a Princess. I am no man’s dearie, especially not yours.”

He leaned oppressively close, but she stood her ground. “You called me here, dearie,” he said with unnecessary glee. “You called on me, and I answered out of courtesy. I have no need to be here.”

“So you come to mock,” she murmured. 

“I come because you are rank with desperation,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming.

Abigail drew a breath, forcing herself to remain calm. “You say this water is dangerous. Would it do harm to you to collect it?”

He giggled. “I am not to the taste of the defender,” he said. “You might send as many men as you please to fetch it, but they will become nothing more than bones and flesh in its teeth.” He bared his own. “It consumes them little by little, but with great pain and suffering.” His eyes glittered strangely. “A worse curse than a little gold leaf, hmm?”

“So I can send no man to fetch it,” she said quietly, to herself. It would be wrong to ask another to give his life to save the life of the man she loved. “You would be my only choice.”

He drew back in a mockingly deep bow. “Indeed.” He raised his face to hers, smirking. “You’re far too clever to pay for one life with another, even if it costs you the one you want to save.”

“You would do this? Go to this river? This lake? Is it one of those?”

“Mm.” He nodded, circling her. “Lake Nostos. Very deep. Very dangerous. The beast that guards it is… protective.” He made a face. “Doesn’t like to share.” He smoothed the hide of his heavy coat. “I just so happen to know the magic words.”

Abigail’s heart sang. She might not have a hero who could fight for her, but she had a solution, and one way or another, she could find a way to free Frederick. It would take time, and effort, but no matter how long, she knew where she had to go.

“You’ve been very helpful,” she said, smiling.

Rumpelstiltskin paused mid-pace and tilted his head to look at her. “What’s that, dearie?”

She looked at him. “You will address me as ‘your Highness’,” she said, “and we are done here. I have all I need, thank you very much.”

“You will leave your heroic soldier in his metal coat?” he said, sounding for a moment genuinely surprised. He masked it with a giggle. “Ah, you are Midas’s daughter indeed, if gold is more precious to you than the man within.”

“My people and my father are more precious to me,” she replied evenly, “than taking the risks involved in making a deal with you.” She sank into a deep curtsey that lingered just long enough to be considered impertinent. “I will remember all you have said, sir, but now, I would be obliged if you would depart. My father prefers me to keep suitable company.”

When he bowed this time, she was startled to see some modicum of respect.

“Very well, your Highness,” he said, one side of his mouth curling up. “I hope you find a way that suits you better.”

“I shall,” she said, bowing her head. 

When she raised her eyes, he was gone.

Abigail sagged down into the seat. Her legs were trembling, and she had no notion how she had kept her feet through the course of the interview. What mattered, though, was that there was a solution. Lake Nostos. She would find it, even if it took her years. Even if she had to set people searching every archive in their Kingdom, she knew she would.

It was a solution that she had not expected, and even with the thought of the monster that protected it, it was hope. 

She set her archivists and records-keepers searching when their duties were not so heavy, and busied herself with helping her father rule the Kingdom. If there was any news, it was delivered to her promptly, and it startled her how quickly the mysterious lake was discovered, and the history that came with it.

It wasn’t enough, of course.

To save Frederick, she would have to risk the life of another.

All the same, the possibility that the lake existed and was there was something for her to hold on to. 

More than once, she considered riding there herself, risking the wrath of the monster to fetch the water they needed, but she knew that her life was not her own to throw away. Her father still needed her. Her country still needed her. She would have thrown herself before her father’s hand to save Frederick a thousand times, and she had in the worst of the dreams, but when she woke, she knew that her place and her position were too important.

A Kingdom needed stability. She was Midas’s only child, and if she was gone before he passed, she knew that there would be war for a land so ripe with her father’s gold. Many of their people would be slaughtered, and that price would be laid at her feet. As much as she wanted Frederick by her side, her Kingdom and her father had to come before him.

It was bearable, to cling to that hope, until people started murmuring.

She was not so young anymore. Several years had gone by since Frederick. It was indecent that she was not yet wed. She was the Heir and future Queen. She had to have a consort or a King or someone who was worthy.

Abigail let the words rush over her, but her father was taking them to heart.

While their lands were safe from wars, beast after monstrous beast seemed to be foraging at the borders. Knights from across the realm were sent to challenge each and every creature, and golden heads soon adorned her father’s walls.

It didn’t take her long to see what her father was about, especially when a dragon - fearsome and fire-breathing - emerged from the mountains. She knew she should have seen sooner, but she had hoped she was mistaken.

When she was summoned to the palace of King George on her father’s request, her heart sank. He often told her she was only worthy of a Prince, and George was known to have a son close to her in age. He was the boy sent to slay dragons and play at war. If he knew half as much as Frederick did of battle and strategy, it would be but a drop in the ocean.

Abigail schooled her expression as best she could when she met her father. For the first time in so many months, he looked happy, and who was she to deny him his happiness? He was still a father, and he wanted to see her happy with a husband and children. He wanted to see grandchildren, and her own loss should not prevent that.

“I have found a good match for you, my dear,” he said, embracing her warmly. “A good and brave young man.”

She wished she had the heart to say that wielding a sword did not mark a man’s goodness, but he seemed so pleased that she could not refuse to meet the boy. That he had slain a dragon was an impressive feat, especially when the monster had rained chaos on their lands for weeks on end.

He was not displeasing to the eye, but he looked no happier with their fathers’ arrangement than she felt. Still, if she was able to bring peace, and the boy had been clever enough to slay the dragon, she knew it was time to put aside the dream of Nostos.

She remembered telling her father that stories were for children. Hope was to join it on the same shelf.

Before she and the Prince departed for her father’s castle, her father took her to one side and said simply, “I know he can never be Frederick, but he is a good man and a kind man, unlike his father. Give him a chance.” 

She wished she could prove willing or even content, but she hardly had the time.

As engagements went, it didn’t go at all as her father hoped. 

First, they were ambushed, then her betrothed went off on a wild hunt for the bandit who had stolen his possessions. Closed away in her father’s castle, making preparations for the wedding and planning how best to keep King George’s sticky fingers off their treasury, she heard whispers from their spies in George’s court that the Prince was moonstruck over some woman he had encountered.

As information drifted in from the various little birds in their pay - being Midas’s daughter certainly had financial benefits on occasion - Abigail wanted to laugh aloud. Her father had matched her with the perfect man it seemed: a man as truly in love with another as she was herself, and who was willing to defy his father in ways that she, as a woman, could not.

From what she had heard of King George, she knew he would not be taking his son’s rebellion lightly, and as the day of the wedding drew close, she set out earlier than expected to pay a call on her father-in-law to be, in the hopes of saving Prince James’s hide. 

After all, it would be quite unsuitable to arrive at her wedding and find that the groom had been murdered by his deranged father.

For all that King George had a powerful army, they were hardly master hunters or strategists, and Abigail set her own men to mark the forest roads for the Prince, who - according to one of the sources in the palace - had gone missing the previous night.

She was unsurprised that she found the Prince before his father did, and couldn’t help smiling at his stamping and huffing in indignation, before he realised who was behind his abduction, and moreover, that she was offering him his freedom.

Her father would no doubt shake his head and groan over her insubordination, she knew, but Prince James was the good man her father had recognised. He wouldn’t marry for anything but love, and she knew she felt the same. 

Why she was impelled to take him to see Frederick, she didn’t know, but she knew he would be the one person in all the lands who might know and understand what it was to be without their true love, and to know just how unbearable it could be.

When he spoke, when he said the words no one else had dared say, her breath caught: “There must be something else to do”.

Others knew of Nostos. Others had been, seeking the waters. None had returned. She should not have told him, and yet, she did. She told him of the water, of the creature, of the danger, and he smiled his kind, Princely smile and told her he would restore Frederick to her.

“None have succeeded,” she said, shaking her head.

“None have my fearless bravery,” he countered with an innocent boldness that dazed her. It was one thing to be brave, but it was another entirely to be reckless. Even though his love lived, he was willing to lay down his life for another’s happiness. 

“Or fearless disregard for their own safety,” she said, unwilling to send a man - a good man - to his end. 

“Either way, one of us should have our happiness,” he said with a calm smile.

She stared at him in disbelief. “And if you die, neither of us will!”

“No, not true,” he said with a kindness that she knew any woman would have welcomed. “Don’t you understand, if I succeed, you will be reunited with Frederick and your misery ends. If I fail, the misery that ends will be mine.”

What could she say but yes? She was not forcing his hand, and he was certain he could succeed where so many failed. She spread the map she had carried with her for weeks, months, years, and led him to the edge of the lake.

It felt like murder, to let him walk there, but he just smiled and went his way.

Abigail prayed silently to any Gods that might be kind enough to hear her, though she wasn’t sure who she was praying for: James, Frederick, a chance to assuage her father’s guilt, her own happiness. She didn’t know anymore. If there was a chance for all of those things, it had been out of her reach for so long that she had almost forgotten what it was to believe.

“If he lives, you live,” she whispered to Frederick, clasping his golden hand. “If he lives, then you can come home with me, and we can be wed as we imagined.” She lifted a hand to caress the chilly helm. “Father will allow it, I know he will.”

She didn’t know why she was weeping. For years, she had run dry of tears, but the thought, the hope, the chance that he might return to her, the chance to hold him in her arms and let him know he was loved, shook her to the core.

It seemed like a lifetime before she heard the sound of someone approach.

It was James.

He had returned, and with him, he brought the waters of Nostos. It seemed impossible, hardly more than a dream, even as she reached up and poured the water over the helmet, and watched it stream down over the armour and the frozen limbs.

Even when she pulled the helmet from Frederick’s head, even when she touched his face, even when he spoke her name and kissed her lips, she scarcely dared to believe it. The tears were hot and fast on her face, and only more so when James smiled.

“Well, pay me by walking down the aisle with someone you truly belong with.”

Frederick looked askance at her as if hardly believing she would agree, but all she could do was smile and know that she would, and they would be happy, so very happy together. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. “So much. Where will you go?”

James smiled. “To find Snow White,” he said.

“You are going after her,” Abigail said, her own smile brightening. Her own happiness must have kindled that fresh hope in him and he nodded. 

“True love isn’t easy, but it must be fought for, because once you find it, it can never be replaced.” 

Abigail smiled, nodding. She remembered tricking tricksters, spying, sending wordsmiths and doing battle with wit and will to find what she needed. She reached back blindly for Frederick’s hand and felt his fingers thread through hers.

With his journey ahead, she let James leave with a caution that his father would not let their marriage go so easily as her own father would. After all he had done, she knew she could not see him slain for his love. 

“A good man,” Frederick said, squeezing her hand. “Who is he?”

She looked up at him with a small, trembling smile. “Until your curse was broken, he was my fiancé.”

The look on his face was priceless. “How long have I been out of the world?” he asked, lifting a hand to touch her cheek. “Long enough for you to be betrothed?”

She laughed quietly. “You flatter me if you believe I look the same,” she whispered, holding his palm to her cheek. “You have been trapped near four years, and I have been waiting for someone who could help me to save you.”

“Abigail,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her, drawing her into his arms and holding her fast. “Oh Gods, Abigail. I’m not worthy of one such as you.”

She embraced him as tightly as she could. “You still talk such foolishness,” she said softly into his ear. “You had a question that you would ask, if I were not a Princess. Ask me.”

“Abigail,” he said uncertainly.

“Ask,” she repeated softly.

He drew back and looked at her. “Will you marry me?”

She was weeping, which was sentimental nonsense, but she didn’t care, as she nodded and smiled and said, “Yes.”


End file.
